


The Stalks (Farming/Crops)

by EverythingCanadian



Series: Promptober [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Multi, Promptober, mention of child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 15:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingCanadian/pseuds/EverythingCanadian
Summary: During the October harvest is when John invites me to his place, but something seems to happen to me before I even make the drive up the driveway. Arthur seems to be a guide for me and John of some type.





	The Stalks (Farming/Crops)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this is honestly a note for you all. This was a piece for my creative writing class a year ago around this time. And I have changed it a bit over the past year. I may continue it as a full story of it’s own with different names one day. But here it is.

Watching the corn stalks shiver along to the wind tugs at a knot in my chest. When the stalks bump against each other their whispers sharpen the October air outside my truck. The deep red and gold colours of the sugar maples line the driveway I’m following up towards the house. Dark grey clouds rolling across the sky heavy with rain that’s ready to fall. A rich storm is coming to pelt water onto my friend John’s land, quenching thirsty plant roots lining the fields. 

There’s not going to be fireflies tonight. Nor crickets for that matter. The storm will provide background noise well enough if the power goes out. It’s looking to be more the case with every minute that passes

I can feel the bone marrow in me shrivel with a chill that runs along my spine. A warning of some unseen threat, unknown as of yet, tracing over each bony crest down the center of my back. Gooseflesh rises.The fresh electricity of a storm coming in makes the hairs on my neck and arms stand tall.

Tilting my head sideways I can hear the faint hum of a buzzing transformer high on a wooden pole, its cables playing connect the dots to the house I’m going to from the road I left..

The thickly planted corn is eerie to me. The danger that my chill warns me about lurks in its shadows. So many urban legends use fields of corn or wheat to emphasis the feeling of the uncanny, the unknown hidden beneath fully blooming heads.

Curiosity gets the better of me. Against every instinct I take a step carefully, a delicate string connecting me to this mystery. 

The tug in my chest of something urges me along towards the thick rows. I step quietly towards the rustling stalks in a trance. Something beckoning me towards the rustling green leaves and swaying stalks. It’s hypnotizing whatever it is.

As I walk around the bed of my truck, having parked the golden brown Chevy in the middle of the driveway, I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. Startled out of the odd trance towards the corn field I look up towards the shadowy blob. The figure becomes clear to me. He wasn’t standing there before I passed behind my truck, I was alone and staring at a wall of corn. His appearance makes me feel as if I crossed a threshold behind my truck, the corn’s draw of my attention is gone. The pull is silenced all at once. 

Is this man- no, he’s not of that nature- this entity controlling the corn fields? Is he causing this need to step into the stalks? Or is he the guide of the fields and what could be in them? 

“Don’t!” The baritone, a low drum, steadying me in my confusion.

I knit my brows, “Sorry?”

“The corn. Don’t.” A thick drawl coats the words.

My eyes trail from his faded form to the stalks of ears now listening like an audience to our scene. 

“Uh-.” I snap my eyes back on him. 

He’s heavier than he seems. The gravel crunches under his boots as he moves with measured steps towards me. He stops just a foot in front of me. Steel-toed work boots that are oddly clean for a farm hand. Come to think of it, the knees of his jeans are void of muck or grass. Not a stain or smudge on him. 

The chill returns along my spine. 

He doesn’t belong, my mind screams at me. Like it always is. I don’t listen.

His Black Hawk Stetson shadows his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s even got any eyes. And his hat- it looks new and sharp. Crisp. 

“It’s not wise to get too close to the stalks; they have a tendency to latch on to new- prey.” the small smirk on his plump lips is surrounded by a cleanly groomed goatee. Any verbal warning would usually bring relief for diverting a potential accident. This one was doing no such thing. 

Squinting didn’t help me see his eyes in the shadow, as if a mask of black mesh covered them from me.

“Who’s to say I- ahhh, old Feldgeist tales then?” I feel myself lighten up a little with hopeful realization. There’s a tightness me, lingering along my spine and shoulders that draws them up in defense. 

_ Fight or flight? Fight or flight? _ I ask myself.

He huffs, amused by my teasing. “More or less. ‘though they’re not the familiar tall tales meant to scare the kiddos from getting lost in the new growth. At least, not this bunch.” 

His head turns towards the whispering razors, disguised as leaves. 

I follow his gaze, swallowing the spit that’s gathered in my mouth. Each time I look to the corn a feeling of danger is brought to my attention. More chills, more gooseflesh. The wild stories I’ve read on the internet invade my thoughts. A wall of corn that stretches out into a solid field of green covered gold has so many urban legends and I supply my own mind with them. I have to promise myself not to read those stories anymore after the sun goes down

The pause between us is thick but quick. I look him over again, slowly this time, giving myself another chill. He looked washed out and sun bleached, not just his clothes but his entire self. His clean jeans washed out. The purple in his checkered shirt pale. And his skin! It was tan although it has a tint; an old black and white film feel to what should be golden. I get the feeling he isn’t human at all. 

He waits there, facing me, watching me. His body still. Is he even breathing? I wonder. His eyes are clear to me now with the way he stands, head tilted back a little to look at me down his nose, it looks like it had been broken once. But his eyes. They’re so dark they look black. They are black. The entire eyeball is black. Void of white or veins, soulless. No iris, no pupil, all pure black but I know he can see me with perfect clarity. 

I want to step away, to make a run for my truck but he’s right in front of me. Panic rises like bile in my throat. My mind is yelling flight! while my body is anchored to the driveway. 

He gets closer without any real movement, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He’s firm in his words. He holds out his left hand palm tilted up for me to shake. “The name’s Arthur, Arthur Morgan. I- uh. I work here.” His hesitation makes me squint up at him. His eyes are slowly melting away from black to a brilliant green-blue, a pale yellow-green sunburst ring surrounding his pupils which are the last to be revealed by the black receding from them.

Somehow I believe him. Not just his name but his promise. I take his hand, strangely cold in the warm sun. Definitely not human then. Damn, I was hoping I could play off his black eyes as a side effect of my potential sunstroke.

I give him my name and he nods as if he knows who I am. Once. Twice. Three times he shakes my hand firmly. His smile is more of a smirk and that adds to my unease. This whole situation is making me ill. I take my hand out of his with some reluctance, not wanting to give him an opening. An opening to what I don’t know yet.

It’s odd when the body notices something’s off before the mind catches up. My mind however is still aware of the whispering leaves a few feet away from us. I don’t know what it is that makes me trust Arthur’s warning. His tone firm enough to keep my full focus on him. The chills that came with the tug in my chest are gone. The danger now has a warning label attached. 

I do know though that I’m going to stay as far away as I can from the corn fields while I’m staying at John’s home here in Texas. There’s another thing that is really bothering me. And nothing but the words of John can placate me. 

John, my friend, didn’t just call out of the blue and invite me here. Not during harvest season. Especially when we haven’t talked for a long while. We went separate ways right out of high school. He went to Texas State college close by our hometown here. While I went North to University of Kentucky. Now however he is waiting for me at the end of the driveway by the house. At least I hope he is. 

Arthur’s voice brought me back to the present. 

“I’ll let you get up to the house before the storm blows in. Don’t want to get caught outside during this time of year.” His head tilted up slightly to where he had to squint his own eyes. 

I can feel my legs again, the invisible anchors that held me are disappearing. The storm is nearly tangible in the dewy air as I wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. A rush of calm washes over me when Arthur walks past me and down the line of corn stalks. A hush had fallen over the field. The danger in Arthur’s warning held within the thicket of lengthy green corn stalks. 

His perimeter walk down the cornfield line feels like a barrier is being erected. A separation between the squishy humans and whatever lurks in Arthur’s world. Just his presence in my vision soothes my recently frayed nerves. His very bleak and otherworldly presence. 

With a quick breath I move to get into the driver’s side of my truck. Shaking my head, I get myself comfortable in the long worn out bench seat leather. It’s cracked in some places but that just makes the truck cabin all the more homey. While turning the keys in the ignition I slam the door shut. The radio comes on at the same time.

At the hard hit of the latch in the door I look up quickly to the dashboard clock, an inkling of something that I’ve missed. The sun was shining in my eyes from the rear-view mirror. Almost a full two hours had passed since I called John that I was at the beginning of his driveway. There’s no way I-. 

But I don’t remember stopping and getting out of my truck, now do I? I don’t remember shutting it off or anything since the call. I don’t remember the radio station I was even listening to. I remember nothing. Up until I walked forward and saw Arthur. 

The static on the am/fm radio makes me pause, an uncomfortable ringing coming from it and hitting my ears. I roll my shoulders and yawn to pop my ears. Nope. Still the same sound. I start to reach for the seek button when I hear those heavy booted steps come jogging up beside my open window. 

“I’m going to get into the passenger seat, and you are going to drive up to the house with the radio off. Do you hear me?” Arthur's voice is stern. He reaches over me to shut the radio off so all I can hear is my engine and him. “We are going to drive up and get into the house and stay put until the storm blows over and dawn comes.”

“Wha-”

“John can explain when we get up there.”

I just nod at the directions. I track him as he moves around the engine block to the unlocked door. His eyes don’t leave the line of driveway behind the truck. 

It’s silent after he gets in, the little drive up to the rancher is quiet between us and I keep my eyes on the gravel driveway. Out of the corner of my vision I can’t help but notice Arthur constantly looking in the mirrors or out the back window. I don’t ask yet. Not until we’re inside.

Arthur is restless when I shift into park, angled a little in front of John’s front door. The screen door opens and closes with a squeak of rust and use, hitting the wood frame when it closes. 

Standing on the peeling blue paint porch is John himself. His feet are in white socks with grey bottoms and toes. His jeans have a small mend in them halfway up the shin with black thread. His blue t-shirt is untucked already but clinging to him from sweat due to hard work. A kitchen hand towel is in one hand dabbing at his neck. A short trimmed brown beard graces his face and outlines his thin and scarred lips. Brunette feathery strands stick to his forehead and temples with shocks of grey hairs through the limp mass. John looks like the farmer he said he would be at the end of high school.

“Grab whatever it is you need tonight and come inside, and don’t dawdle. I have no desire for unwanted company.” A soft lilt accompanies his words.

I opened my door just after Arthur opens the passenger door. “Okay, what is going on?” I ask. Both fear and annoyance colour my tone. 

John snorts through his nose, wincing slightly when I close my truck door with the latch locking loudly under the sound of the wind and rolling far off thunder. He’s grinding his teeth. “Morgan hasn’t told you? I’m surprised.” He bites out. His eyes glare at Arthur.

I raise my eyebrows in curiosity. “Spill while I get my shit?”

“Remember when we were kids and decided it was a good idea to camp in your tree-fort that one fall? The one after those kids went missing?” John asks.

“Is this the same one where they found the bodies after the harvest?” I counter. I amble over to the bed of my truck, pulling the door down and moving to roll back the black tarp up to the truck cabin. Arthur helped me by rolling the passenger side.

John hummed, “The very same.”

“Yeah?”

“We used to think we were seeing people running around the property at night, in and out of the wheat fields your folks had.” I pull my duffel from the bed, closing the door with a slam. We- we weren’t seeing things sweetheart.” He pauses and takes the towel away from his neck. “We weren’t seeing things at all. We were looking down at lost shadows of what were once kids.” John swallowed, “Those kids that went missing and were found after everything was harvested didn’t go to sleep like the dead are supposed to.”

His throat has what looks to be thin scratch marks and small bruises in the shape of hands. My eyebrows are covering over my eyes, horror on my face. Beau is already moving from the bed of my truck, opening the passenger door wider and grabbing my backpack and then thinking before grabbing my cell phone from the cup holder.”. I didn’t even notice he had moved from my view.. 

“John Marston? This isn’t some dumb joke.” I prod.

He shakes his head. “You know me sweetheart,” the nickname strikes me like it did a few years ago, “I don’t joke about the dead.”

Arthur is hauling my bag up to the house, climbing the front steps as I stand there and watch. “Get a move on missy, storm is here and we need to get to the basement before they find themselves a new playmate.” Arthur’s voice gravels. 

I open the door to my truck again and start it, rolling up the power windows and double checking I have everything. If Arthur is serious, my time lapse has nothing to do with me losing my mind from the heat. It has everything to do with the lull of the beyond. Not the beyond I want to touch or go anywhere near. The tug from my chest and my near hypnotic state are pieces that lead to whatever me and John saw as kids. What John has probably seen these past few days. Hell, what he’s seen every harvest season since he began living on his own. 

I don’t want to join the shadows that were once human. I don’t want to become one of the stalks’ victims, a shadow of myself looking for a playmate in whoever follows the pull of the corn fields. I make myself step one foot in front of the other to the house. Shelter. Protection.


End file.
